Fangs & Furbellows in the Suburb.

Hello my lovely friends and visitors all,

It is me, the world famous explorer, diving into the life of Suburbia in Florider. 

The world famous explorer, on she walks, smile at strangers. They see a happy li’l creature, a bit on the pale-brown side, wagging and yapping, ready to jump into conversation with them. Even though I have on soft cotton pants or, sometimes, jeans, I know strangers see pretty dan-dan with frou-frou…pretty dress with frills. They see the inner-me.

Lemme introduce you to some o’ these nice strangers. 

Fran and Jeff, young couple from New York. They stop to chat. Fran got skin like cream, and she afro fluff-out, soft-looking, jet-black. She hubby tall, dark-brown, lean, and he smile wide. 

The Mexican man walking he dawg in the morning shade; the pale Jamaican lady with the Montego Bay drawl that make me think ‘bout holidays and beach, boats and strolling downtown with reggae inna me ears; the dark-skin lady with the Georgia twang, washing she 3 cars in she driveway; the elderly Haitian couple; the blonde woman with she pretty blue-eye girl-chile dawdling behind, and she cute toddler in the pram…or stroller as they say in Merca…all these strangers greet me as if I wearing Elie Saab or Chanel, which all o’ we know is appropriate attire for world famous explorers-influencers who pose on mountain-edge.

So why the sour-man, and others like he, barely glance me way? Anybody would think I baring fangs. I never hear a good morning or good afternoon or even a grunt from them. 

One o’ them, I can understand why she ain’t want to say howdy. She big brown dawg dragging she by she right hand. The dawg leaning forward, she slanting backwards. In she left hand, she got a bag full o’ poo. I think I see shame in she eyes. If she from the Caribbean, she got a right to feel shame. Caribbean people don’t pick up dawg poo.

“Pooo,” I say to meself. “Pooo.” I turn up me toffee-nose and head to the big pond that they call lake which smell like fish. Something weird about this pond. Every time I walk past, I does go home smelling like fish. 

I stand at the edge, but not too close…notice, I never say me is Intrepid Explorer…I ain’t want no alligator chase me up a tree and make me lose dignity all over the Internet! (You never know who got a phone ready to film these things.) 

I stand near the pond, gazing like a proper environmental lady at the hot afternoon sunlight glittering and bouncing like a thousand shiny boats on the water. Breeze raise up and lick me hair, lashing it all over me face. How glamorous! Just like in the movies. If this was me film about me, Salma Hayek would be acting as me. 

Time to go home now.

I walk past a car with tint-windows. These windows is nice. When you walk past, you can see you’self and admire.

Me dear!

I nearly holler with dread.

Staring at me in the vehicle-window is a swamp creature, hair in disarray…jabberjastay, to use me mother favourite word. 

I hustle home. A sour-man approach me, wrinkle-up he nose and cross the road.

Suburbia ain’t no easy place, yeah. I got to be Brave. Strong. I got to dispense good advice like a proper world-famous explorer-influencer. 

Walk with a comb and bade with perfume. S’all for now ‘til next time.

Plenty luve, neena.